Undoing what is not real,
I count backwards from 98.
Dawn’s hour absorbs blue darkness.
There were many hotel rooms. It lacked imagination.
A kingsize bed, occasionally a lonely queen,
a series of men beg for their comforts.
An audience never entered this scene.
As curated experience, this is control.
Behind the private shadows, real life
remains hidden outside this repressed habit.
I wake up knowing which ghosts were lies
and create what was never given to me.
Somewhere, an ocean wave breaks in refrain.
As a new sun rises in a sky scrawled with contrails,
I invite time to spread generously.
What goes unsaid becomes the poet’s prayer.
Cache Culture 